print_r($recent);

Array
(
 [93]=>Stupid Love Song
 [92]=>Henry V's war
 [91]=>Canon: EOS 20D v...
 [90]=>Grey when negati...
 [89]=>I would
)

 

DocsCal(date('my'));

June 2003
sun mon tue wed thu fri sat
1 2 3 4 5 6 7
8 9 10 11 12 13 14
15 16 17 18 19 20 21
22 23 24 25 26 27 28
29 30          
             
archives(JPsDocs);


print_r($newStuff);

Array
(
 [RAndoMness]=> 28Sep09
 [JPsDocs] => 22Feb09
 [JPics] => 10Dec11
 [frontpage]
 [FeedBack]
)

recent music
Boycott SONY


printentry(19Jun03);

Thinking back-
I wish that I could protect my heart. I wish there were some way to make it so I'd never be interested in a girl that I know would break my heart. Even knowing that it's coming, it still is hard, perhaps impossible, to resist falling. She has a boyfriend. So it's not that I even stand a chance from the beginning. Even if she didn't have a boyfriend, I know that she's the type that would break my heart. I've seen it before, and I've known before, and it never made a difference before.

Slowly walk to the car. It's not parked very far away, but it's also not right next to the apartment. It makes for a good walk in the cool air. Good chance to think, because the world has already said its goodnights, and only a few night owls break the silence. But not I: I slip through the night unnoticed, unthought of. Head down, hands in pockets; the world doesn't acknowledge me, nor I it. I wish that I could protect my heart.

Watch as she is dragged up the stairs toward the bedroom. She really was tired... Can't even walk straight now. A wave goodbye to the two girls, and I step out the door. Somebody sprints up the stairs as I saunter down, but that is the only other living soul in sight. Slowly walk to the car.

Sleepy eyes look around. She notes that she is in a different position than what she remembered, but that seems to be her only proof that she had actually been asleep. Naturally, I would be perfectly content to sit there all night with her sleeping at my side. Of course, that isn’t going to happen. Her roommate wakes her up enough to convince her that she should be heading to bed. Watch as she is pulled off the couch. Watch as she is pulled to her feet. Watch as she is dragged up the stairs toward the bedroom.

Her roommate notes that she is asleep. I continue running my hands through her hair, not sure if she’s just pretending to be asleep, or actually has crossed that mystical border. Slowly, carefully pull the hair behind her ears so as to see her face. Calm, serene, gorgeous. Run a hand under her chin, and she rolls over into it. It would appear that she actually is asleep. Then she drifts back awake. Sleepy eyes look around.

Gentle yet firm, I run my fingers through her hair and massage her skull. Can’t see her eyes, but I assume that they’re closed, because her hair hangs over her face. The breathing becomes regular as she allows herself to further relax. And bit by bit, she crawls to magical lands of slumber. Her roommate notes that she is asleep.

For fear of breaking some unwritten rule of females, she can’t just ask straightforward. Naturally, the answer to such a straightforward question would be yes, but she has to make it look like I officially offered. So instead of waiting for her to ask directly, I play along with the harmless game. Gentle yet firm, I run my fingers through her hair.

“What would such a servant do?” I ask. She replies that she would just want someone who would always be there to play with her hair. She is obviously referring to an earlier evening in which I was more than willing to play with her hair and massage her shoulders. By that obvious token, it is apparent that she is asking me to do it again. For fear of breaking some unwritten rule of females, she can’t just ask straightforward.

Her head slowly approaches the pillow next to where I sit. She makes some comment about how she wishes she had a slave or a servant. I figure that she must want some quick errand taken care of, or a drink brought over to her. Duty dictates that if a beautiful young lady wants me to be active in order for her to lay still, I will gladly do whatever she asks. “What would such a servant do?” I ask.

Later in the evening, one of the two girls I currently find most intriguing is sitting next to me. She somehow has a way of showing everybody attention and making each person feel individually important. But as the other guys leave to go to bed, I am left alone with the three roommates. We’re all tired: I myself am trying to decide if I will just fall asleep where I sit, or get up and go home. Apparently she is the most tired of all; her head slowly approaches the pillow next to where I sit.

If I could figure out the source of the anxiety, I could perhaps make it go away. I find myself wishing that I had someone that I could turn to and simply curl up in her arms and find an escape through her. Would the stress be removed? Most certainly not. But at least I would have somewhere to retreat to—someone to share my pain. Later in the evening, one of the two girls I currently find most intriguing is sitting next to me.

Panic. Fear. Disorder. Hopelessness. Impossibilities. Inconceivable notions of happiness. I’m sure that some of the confusion is brought on by lack of sleep. Also, life is pretty stressful as I abandon one job in search of rainbows. But does such stress have to translate into such extreme feelings of hopelessness? The initial anxiety attack subsides after a few minutes, but the feelings of inadequacy still occupy the foreground of conscious and unconscious thought. If I could figure out the source of the anxiety, I could perhaps make it go away.

Make it go away.


uploaded Thu June 19 2003 at 1:01 AM
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